


"Longer than you'd like."

by TheStoriesWeLoveBest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:39:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStoriesWeLoveBest/pseuds/TheStoriesWeLoveBest
Summary: “How long have you been standing there?”“Longer than you’d like.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first try to write about them… I hope no to made it so bad. 
> 
> Sorry if there are some English mistakes, it’s not my first language.
> 
> Disclaimer: Plot's story is mine, but it isn't the characters, neither are the places, they belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the creators of Sherlock BBC.

He had almost committed a mistake, a poorly played note that would ruin the entire piece. It had been because of the distraction because, although play used to help him to think, that piece specifically distracted him. The notes he had written in her honor, hoping to capture everything that symbolized The Woman were a swirl of chords and memories, mixed together. 

He almost was wrong, only because a woman with a very similar hair had passed under his window, covering herself from the heavy rain with a red umbrella, reminding him to the slight drizzle of Podgorica, to the suffocating heat of her room, to the adrenaline that was supposed to share life with her.

That was what they had done, they had shared life, only for a few months, but they had done so. Until he returned from the dead, with the bad taste of leaving her alone in the constant danger that she was always exposed. 

However, the situation of The Womand would have changed already, like his own had done, she would no longer be in the suite of the hotel, perhaps would have already reached Moscow, getting the loft she had wanted too much, she maybe would regain some of the old prestige that she had possessed. 

He couldn't tell that he missed her, that would be to admit the feeling that the both of them refused to admit, but he could repeat or himself, again and again, that things would have been easier if she had been there: the wedding would have not been so heavy, or the return to home after that so lonely; the situation with Janine would have not finished in a way so awful (at the end, and after all, if there was something in what Irene was an expert was in playing with the feelings of the people), she would have found the form of a simple break, without the journalistic consequences that he had to assume. 

However, the rest would have been much more complicated: assuming that, after killing Magnussen, he should move away from London. He could have gone in her pursuit, allow her to witness his nightmares though none of them would comment on it later. After all, both are aroused in the middle of the night. 

Back to home after all that he discovered in that plane, returning to face a threat to the city also would have been much easier if she was just there, without danger, if he could protect her as they had done to each other while taking down Moriarty’s Network. 

He returned to focus his mind on the notes, in the almost funeral melody he had written to her when he considered her dead. That still felt like a burning in his chest that he was not willing to pay attention.  
He had played the song five, maybe six times, when he noticed her presence. Sitting in his armchair, with the book he had been reading on her lap and with barely makeup. He didn’t said nothing, analyzing previously the situation: that was not part of his imagination, when she appeared in his Mental Palace used to do in her battle dress, with lips as red as the first time, without the blonde wig that she had used in their last goodbye. In addition, in his mind, she used to pay attention only to him. 

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Longer than you’d like.” Answered without lifting the look. 

Sherlock left the violin on its cover, keeping it carefully, walking to her front, watching her, with both hands on his chin. 

“What are you doing here, woman?”

“The world is a mess lately, I needed a safe place while I visit the city.”

“You shouldn’t be visiting the city.”

“And you should focus your mind on the new threat, and yet you were playing my song.” 

“I…”

“My, my, Mr Holmes, I am no longer the only one who misbehaves.” 

She smirked, looking at him above the book, with petulance and arrogance. He bit his both lips. Irene rose up to be on his level: she hardly resembled the image that he kept of her, he preferred her with loose hair, like the first time she had been in Baker Street; with one of the dresses that filled her wardrobe, no matter what city decided to inhabit. 

With the index finger, and her nails painted at the same red that used to adorn her lips, caressed his cheekbones. His cheekbones had always been one of her weakness. 

“Admit it, dear, you’ve missed me.”

He did not answer. Answer it would be a defeat, but he grabbed her by the waist and recalled all the kisses that they had share before really kiss her.


End file.
